Andersson looked at her thoughtfully. Finally he nodded and said, “I’ve sat and looked at that damn porn picture several times and I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but I also think that there’s something familiar about him.”
“Me, too,” Hannu agreed.
The others at Monday morning prayers shook their heads regretfully.
The attack at Irene’s home had happened late Friday night. Colleagues and technicians had searched through her house and its surroundings for evidence over the weekend. Rain had fallen during the night, which made the search difficult. The only positive find was the impression of a Nike athletic shoe, size eleven, in a flower bed on the short side of the toolshed that separated the Husses’ house from their neighbor’s. Basta must have hidden behind the shed, waiting for Krister to come home.
Krister had become dizzy after the blow but he hadn’t passed out. A police car drove him to Sahlgren Hospital to be checked. They confirmed that he had suffered trauma, with heavy bleeding and swelling. He would have to take a few days off work and go easy for a while.
Krister accepted his diagnosis with a grumble. Irene heard him say that to be attacked from behind by a crazy murderer was nothing compared to the experience of opening the door of one’s own cozy home and being met by a howling demon coming at him! He had never been so close to a heart attack in his life.
Irene was truly grateful that they had come away from their meeting with Basta as well as they had. By now she had seen far too many who hadn’t had the same luck.
“The baton he had with him wasn’t a normal policeman’s baton. It was dark brown or black. And it wasn’t made out of rubber. It sounded like he’d dropped a baseball bat when it fell against the concrete slabs of the walkway. And it seemed longer than our batons,” Irene said at morning prayers.
“Probably hickory or mahogany. The police in the USA and some Asian and African police corps use them,” said Hannu.
“Was the baton found in Emil’s closet a regular rubber baton?” Andersson asked.
“Yes,” said Irene.
“And there was blood on it from that tart,” the superintendent mentioned.
“Yes. Carmen Ostergaard’s blood. That murder was committed two years ago. The conclusion has to be that the weapon used during the recent murders was this wooden baton,” said Irene.
And her husband had been knocked down with that baton. Fear chilled Irene. She hadn’t had any objections when the superintendent placed an officer at their house during the weekend and wouldn’t oppose keeping the guard there until Basta had been caught. As if he had read her thoughts, Andersson locked his gaze on Irene and said, “We’ll continue to post a guy at your house. It’s clear that that idiot is out to get you. And you aren’t going out on any investigations on your own! No personal projects for a while! He’s biding his time, waiting for the right opportunity.”
Irene was uneasy, not because the superintendent was talking about her private investigation in Copenhagen, but because she realized how right he was. Basta had been very clear about his intentions. He wasn’t afraid of attacking her family. Their daughters had carefully been instructed not to open the door for strangers, not to go out alone in the evenings or at night, and to take other necessary safety precautions.
“What a horrible job you have!” Jenny had sighed. For the first time in her life, Irene almost agreed with her.
“Are we getting closer to identifying this man?” Andersson asked.
Birgitta asked permission to speak.
“I’ve called everyone on the lists from Marcus’s computer. I’ve been able to cross off most of them right away. They’ve been business contacts. But there are several interesting people in his phone book. I haven’t been able to get a few of them. I think many of the ones I’ve already spoken with have had interesting reactions. Some have said, ‘Am I in his phone book? We’ve only seen each other once,’ and others, ‘Am I still in his phone book? We haven’t seen each other for years.’ I think this means that Marcus was very careful about keeping track of his partners and even one-night stands. That’s why I think it’s highly likely that Basta is on the list.”
Irene had avoided the boring lists of names on purpose but realized now that there was every reason to get to work on them. Birgitta was right. Basta was probably in there somewhere. Give the thing you fear a name and gain control over it, thought Irene. Loudly she said, “What can the nickname Basta stand for?”
“Basta. Bastu. Bastuklubb!” Jonny grinned. “Steamy! Like a bath-house.”
“Maybe he’s strict. Basta could refer to that,” Birgitta suggested.
“There could be something there. Marcus was evidently a masochist. Basta could mean a strict enforcer,” Irene agreed.
Hannu spoke up. “I’ve been thinking about the location where they dismembered Marcus. On the video you can see a window high up on the wall. Twice you can see blinking lights that are moving. It’s dark outside. The lights can clearly be seen. I’ve contacted a friend who is an air traffic controller and have shown it to him. He says that the first light you can see is that of a helicopter taking off and the other is an airplane that’s landing.
“That’s a clue. But which airfield can it be? Landvetter?” Andersson wondered.
“No. The plane is small. It must be Save. That’s the only one with enough traffic for there to be two light aircraft in ten minutes. I’m thinking about checking to see if there are any interesting locations nearby,” said Hannu.
Irene thought this seemed soundly reasoned. They had to start looking for the location and this was a start. Everyone else had been completely focused on the macabre scene that had played on the television screen. As usual, Hannu had been thinking for himself.
“And we’ll return to our lists,” Irene pointed out and nodded at Birgitta.
“It’s probably safest that way. To have you here in the station,” the superintendent muttered.
IRENE PUTa red mark next to the names of people she couldn’t contact and those she thought would be interesting to meet face to face. She had gone through over twenty names and put a red mark next to five of them. If Basta wasn’t among these five, then she would have to go back to the list and go through more names. It was boring and time consuming. There wasn’t much police action, drama, or glamour in this kind of thing. But that was how you solved a crime: you didn’t set aside any project until it had been thoroughly checked and judged to be exhausted.
Just as she was stretching her hand out to make the twenty-fifth call, her phone rang.
“Inspector Irene Huss,” she answered.
“My name is Hen. . Henning Oppdal,” said a soft man’s voice.
Irene couldn’t decide if the man was stammering because of a speech impediment or just because he was nervous. She sensed a faint Norwegian accent. The name didn’t mean anything to her.
“What can I help you with?” she asked in a friendly manner.
“I know Pontus. He said that I should. . should call you.” Pontus? Irene needed to think before she recalled him.
“Ohh, you know Pontus Zander. Do you also work in the health field?”
“Yes. I’m an X-ray technician.”
This was followed by silence. Each was waiting for the other to continue.
“Why did Pontus think you should contact me?” Irene finally asked in order to move the conversation along.
“I told him about something. A terrible thing I experienced over the winter. Pontus had apparently spoken with you about the mur. . murder of Marcus Tosscander. And you had talked about some sick things. Like nec. . necrophilia and stuff like that.”
“That’s right. We know that Marcus’s murderer is involved with things like that. Did you know Marcus?”
“No, I’ve never met him.”
“But you’ve experienced something that may have a connection to necrophilia. Have I understood you correctly?”
“Yes. At the end of January I met a guy at a bar at the Central Station. We met and, well, we were attracted to each other. After a while he thought we should leave to. . together. We walked along Stampgatan. I thought we were going to go home to his place, but it wasn’t like that.”
“Sorry for interrupting, but what did he look like? Did he say his name?”
